Dead Giveaway (Stillwater Trilogy 2)

"He also confessed to murder when he thought your father had found the reverend's remains."

"Those remains turned out to be a dog."

"So? The point is, Jed tried to protect the Montgomerys, which means he might know more than he's saying."

"True. Rachelle Cook and Nora Young's statements certainly suggest he's lying. They claim Reverend Barker was going home when they said goodbye to him in the church parking lot just before he disappeared."

Allie knew her mother had heard all of this before. Everyone in Stillwater had. She would've been more familiar with it herself, had she not moved away as soon as she graduated from high school. After that, she had college, marriage and her own work to keep her busy. She'd thought about the missing reverend only when her father mentioned some facet of the case.

"You have to decide who's got a reason to lie," her mother said.

The way her mother loved mysteries and true-crime books, it was too bad she hadn't gone into law enforcement. Especially since she was surrounded by a family of cops. Besides her husband being chief of police, and her daughter serving on the same force, her oldest child, Daniel, was a sheriff in Arizona. When Allie's brother called to discuss his various cases, it was often Evelyn who offered the best advice.

"Is Dad over at the station?" Allie asked.

"If he's not out on a call. Or at the doughnut shop," she added wryly. A year ago, the doctor had warned Dale that his cholesterol was too high. So Evelyn had put him on a diet. But they both knew he thwarted her attempts to curtail his calorie consumption. He'd sneak off to Two Sisters, a local cafe, for homemade pie, the Piggly Wiggly for chips and soda, or Lula Jane's Coffee and Cake, for a gigantic apple fritter.

"He's not very cooperative," Allie mused.

Evelyn shook her head. "He never has been. Not when it comes to food."

Only five-ten and nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, Dale could stand to lose some weight. But he'd always been stocky. Allie hated to see him denied what he loved most. "Maybe you should ease up on the diet restrictions."

Her mother shook her head adamantly. "I can't. The doctor said he could have a heart attack. Or a stroke."

"It's a good thing he's got you," Allie said.

"We could lose him if we're not careful." Evelyn reached out to tuck Allie's hair behind one ear, the way she used to when Allie was little. "Your dad and I have been together forty years. Hard to believe, isn't it? Where has all the time gone?"

Allie pressed her cheek into her mother's palm. "Thanks for letting me come home."

Evelyn lowered her voice because they could hear Whitney skipping down the hall, singing. "You should've told us what you were dealing with a lot sooner."

"I thought the medication would help his mood swings. And it did, to some extent. I could've lived with his ups and downs if only he'd cared about Whitney."

"He was just too--" Whitney entered the room, and Evelyn finished with a simple "--selfish."

Allie's daughter had chocolate smeared on her face and was grinning from ear to ear.

"Boppo makes the best cookies. I'm glad we live here!"

Whitney didn't seem to miss her father. Considering the way Sam had treated her, Allie wasn't particularly surprised. "I'm glad, too, honey."

"That makes three of us." Evelyn collected Allie's empty plate. "Come on, Whitney. We'll let your mother grab a quick nap."

Whitney didn't answer. She was too busy searching the bed and the floor. "Where is it?"

she asked in obvious disappointment. "Where did it go?"

Allie had slumped back onto the pillows. She planned to get up and help her daughter with homework. But she craved fifteen more minutes before she had to roll out of bed. "Where did what go?" she asked, her mind having shifted to the poster board Whitney needed for a project at school.

"The picture," Whitney replied.

"What picture?" Evelyn asked.

"Of the naked man. The one Mommy took at work."

Allie could feel her mother's gaze, but pretended not to be paying attention.

"Allie?" her mother said.

"Give me a few minutes," Allie mumbled, feigning sleep.

"Mommy," Whitney started but, much to Allie's relief, Evelyn managed to coax her from the room with the promise of calling Uncle Daniel in Arizona to say hello.

"Will Aunt Jamie be there, too?" Whitney asked.

"Maybe," Evelyn said. "We'll see."

As soon as they were gone, Allie pulled Clay's photograph from under her mattress, intending to return it to the file. She had no reason to feel embarrassed that she had it. It was work, that was all. And yet his fathomless blue eyes held her spellbound.

Was he a murderer? An accomplice? Or a convenient target?

At this point, she had no idea. She only knew he was the handsomest man she'd ever met.

With a curse, she shoved the photograph back between the mattresses--she didn't want her mother and Whitney to catch her leaving the room with it--and forced herself to get up.

It rained again that night, and steam rose from the warm earth. Clay stood at his bedroom window, watching it, listening to the wind whip the trees against the house. The ferocity of the storm made him feel more isolated than usual, and yet it reminded him that seasons changed and life went on--even though he felt like he was trapped in the past.

The phone rang. After a long day of plowing, he'd replaced the roof on one of the sheds behind the barn. His back ached from hauling the heavy roofing material up the ladder and from bending over to attach each shingle. He wanted to go to bed. But, tired as he was, he strode to the nightstand and reached for the handset. It had to be Beth Ann. He'd tried calling her twice earlier.

"Hello?"

"Clay?"

It was her, all right. Stretching out on the bed, he gazed up at the ceiling, wondering why he wasn't angry. She'd done her best to land him in prison, which was still a possibility. But he blamed himself more than he blamed her. At least she was willing to make a commitment. He couldn't even offer her friendship.

"What's up?" he said.

There was a moment's hesitation, during which he felt her surprise at receiving his typical greeting. "You're not mad?" she asked.

"That depends on what you mean by mad."

Her voice dropped. "I'm sorry, if that helps."

She sounded contrite, which made it even more difficult to hold what she'd done against her. Maybe she wasn't the finest person in the world. But she wasn't the worst, either. And Clay didn't think he'd be nominated for sainthood anytime in the near future. "It happened. It's over. I think we should both forget it and move on."